


Red Beans and Rice

by Thanfiction



Series: Team Free Will Recipe Ficlets [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Recipes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanfiction/pseuds/Thanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of five ficlets where the prompt was to incorporate a relevant recipe in a character glimpse or study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Beans and Rice

It was a myth that vampires couldn’t eat anything but blood.  They could eat it just fine.  It just didn’t DO nothing.  After turning, a man could stuff himself until his belly ached to bursting and it wouldn’t sate the hunger the least little bit.  Not to mention with your senses jacked all to hell like that, nothing tasted right, everything seemed overspiced, overdone, too much too much, especially back in the day when let’s be honest here, refrigeration was not a thing and southern temperatures WERE, and if that meat hadn’t just been squirming, it was probably covered in pepper sauce for a reason.

And if it was that fresh, no vamp worth his fangs would have let it bleed anywhere but straight down his throat and then, funny that, not hungry any more.   

It’d been years.  More than years.  Over a century since he’d proper eaten anything more than the very minimum necessary to pass among humans to hunt, drank anything that didn’t have alcohol or a pulse.  He’d forgotten, and go figure, he’d forgotten he’d forgotten, even though he’d been a not half bad cook in the long before.  

But Andrea ate.  She ate things that twisted on her tongue like bodies sweaty in the sheets and like all the other beautiful things, it wasn’t so different when you got past the outside. Loukoumathes and beignets. Pasteli and pralines.  Horta Vrasta and collards.  Kroketes Patatas and Hushpuppies.

Havana wasn’t New Orleans, but it was far enough from the nest that he’d been able to go ashore, and he’d been able to shop with a clear head once a little gold had been left behind for the bastard who was gonna find his horse feeling damned poorly for a while.  Five years together tonight, and she’d asked for something special, something different, something his.  

Well, put it that way, sugar, only one thing it could be that wouldn’t take too much time for making a stock first.  Red beans and dirty rice. 

Red beans boiled an hour until tender enough to crush between his thumb and finger.  Trinity sauteed in a lump of butter size of a chicken’s egg until the onions looked like salted porthole glass.  Garlic, plenty of, mugging like he was scared of it and making her laugh with a sound that shivered him so hard it made him gasp out loud.  Hadn’t had pickle meat, but a big old smoked ham hock did just fine.  Thyme, bay leaves, tabasco, salt, worcestershire, onion powder, oregano, sweet basil, black pepper, cayenne, celery seed, paprika.  All in the pot with just enough water to cover the mess and the lid half on.

Three hours simmering easy til it all got creamy good, heating the galley nigh unbearable.  Left no choice, really.  Had to take off his shirt, and if that meant her dress went and then his trousers and then a long, slow fuck on the galley floor, wasn’t that what anniversaries were all about?  

Sort of thing makes you hungry, though, especially with her heartbeat moaning at you all on its own and the artery in her thigh so thick and rich and pulsing against the side of your cheek, but he drank the blood of the chicken livers, sucking one like a sweet and humming an old negro river song to himself while he diced the rest of a fistfull of livers into a big old mess of butter, sauteed it all together with fluffy white rice.  Couple pickled onions on the side.  Big links of chaurice sausage, one cut catawampus because she’d put her mouth on HIS neck and her hand slide down his back and said oughtn’t chefs wear pants?  

Oughtn’t, sure.  A shrug and a chuckle and a thick ladle of beans over rice that were full of salt and garlic and laughing at everything folk thought they knew of his kind.  He was pretty keen on oughtn’t. 


End file.
